Undeclared
by aidan adair
Summary: Movieverse. Some people don't like waiting. *Chapter Three's up!*
1. Propositions

**TITLE** undeclared   
**AUTHOR** aidan adair (aidan@soon.com)   
**SUMMARY** some people don't like waiting.   
**AUTHOR'S NOTE** an attempt at a long fic. will try to update once a week minimum; however, a holiday to france might interfere. but i will try if anyone reads. :) 

(UPDATED 25/5/02 - second half of first chapter added, and a bit more to come! sorry, it's getting long.) 

* * * * *

**1** _propositions_

_to deny your home is to deny me too   
and i could start a religion with the things i don't do_

He used to dream about building a rowboat. Smooth the oars, shove off somewhere around Maine. He'd paddle to the point where he finally reached the exact spot where the water lapped at the sunset and stay there maybe forever. It always seemed nice in that little moment before he fell asleep. 

But that belonged with things like drinking out of the carton and searching for your Christmas presents, with "Honey, I'm home!" and kissing the girl next door. Thieves didn't give you much time to dream about fairytales. 

And this one was really freaking fast. He wanted to recommend her to the Boston Marathon or at least a sprinting club. He gave up chasing her by foot and instead shot webbing up to the streetlight. With a graceful arc, he landed in front of the criminal. 

"Hi there." 

The girl backed up a good five feet; she stumbled over a fire hydrant and dropped a pile of glistening silver on the ground. "You know, it's more polite to say hello back," he said, stooping neatly and snatching up the necklace at his feet. "Actually, probably more polite to pay Tiffany's than just carry-out." 

She stared at him fearfully through the slit in her mask, crouched near the ground. _Jesus_, he thought, _she can't be more than sixteen_. "Make a buck somewhere else, kid." He squinted as flashing blue and red lights burst around the corner; with a sigh, he shot webbing at her feet as he turned to face the nearest building. A very distinctive voice kept him from leaping. 

"Don't you leave me like that, Peter Parker!" 

He whipped around. 

Vivid red hair, accusing blue eyes. The mask was crumpled in her hands, and with a start, he recognized it as his own. 

  


* * * * *

Peter was never good at symbolism. His English teacher could sigh all she wanted, but chemical formulas made far more sense than Plato every day. There wasn't room for interpretation: if something should be one way, it simply was. There were no second glances in science. Things may have been rediscovered, but they were never ripped apart. Not like things were when he closed his eyes. 

His dreams left him clammy and cold, groping for his alarm clock like it was a lifeboat. Harry woken up to Peter's terrified screaming several times, and finally dragged him up to the roof for a cigar (which wasn't very helpful, but Harry did try). He knew where his problems stemmed. Nicotine wasn't going to help. 

Peter's problems sauntered down the street with every headstrong redhead that passed his way. They danced in the shows he saw on weekends, they collected tips in the diners where he ate his lunch. His problems were in every pair of smiling aquamarine eyes behind the cash register. 

In essence, his demons were on parade. What was worse: he hadn't seen Mary Jane since Norman Osborn's funeral. It made crime fighting nearly unbearable; what was the point, if no sacrifices came with it? His thoughts were destructive and wild, and they ravaged his dreams. 

Aunt May's phone call was only too welcome. 

  


* * * * *

"Peter? Have I finally caught you at last?" 

Her warm tone teased a genuine smile to his lips. "Yes, Aunt May, it really is me. How've you been? I haven't heard from you in awhile!" He winced as the paring knife he was wielding nicked his finger. 

"What was that?" 

"Oh, sorry. I'm chopping onions for dinner. Harry has me almost domesticated, Aunt May: I'm always doing the cooking!" 

Her laughter rang over the line. "It sounds like you're keeping busy. How's your job with that new scientist fellow?" 

"Dr. Meyers? Very well. It's microbiology. Really very interesting, and I just earned some vacation time. And then there's my job at the Bugle." He tossed the onions into his soup pot and began stirring. 

"Peter, dear, with your classes too? You sound as if you could certainly use that vacation time!" 

The corners of his mouth twitched. "It sounds wonderful, Aunt May, but I'm just so busy – " 

"Exactly the reason why you should take time off! That was why I called; an old friend of mine offered his manor upstate. Rolling hills, lots of trees, and a big old rambling house to explore. Doesn't it sound great?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry making frantic hand motions. Peter ladled the soup faster, still cradling the phone. "Yes, Aunt May, it does sound really great, I'm just afraid that I can't take the time - " 

"Of course you can, dear. It will be good for you, I promise." 

Harry was now frantically waving his arms, trying to get Peter's attention. 

"All right, I'll think it over and call you back!" he said a quick goodbye. 

His housemate was pacing frantically. "MJ just called my cell. She's been evicted. Effective immediately." 

  


* * * * *

Her clumsy feet had done her in. 

It wasn't that she didn't like her job; she waited tables where legends once worked. The playwright Jonathan Larson tended bar here. Portraits of waitresses-turned-divas covered the walls. She decided she liked the place the moment she poked her head through the door. 

Shifts were easy at first. She'd show up for the lunch crowd, refill their diet Cokes and serve up french fries with that starlet smile. Studying came later, and dinner, and a bit of shopping before bed. 

Her roommate moved out. Something about job opportunities elsewhere; she left no deposit, and the month's rent was now entirely MJ's problem. She began working double-time, selling the customers her sweetest grins. Tips added up and she studied during breaks and mopped floors at night and one night she even locked up - 

- but it all came crashing down with the huge tray of food all over the floor and her unkempt hair and baggy eyes and the snapping of her high heel right off her left shoe. 

Enrique handed her the pink slip on her way out the door, as well as a bill for a hundred fifty dollars: the cost of the plates and cups laying shattered about the floor. 

MJ gathered her dignity. 

He simpered. 

She flicked him off. 

* * * * *

For once, she didn't care that her bags were scattered around the floor. She stripped off her red and blue uniform, fully intending to roast it at the next bonfire; a quick hop into her sweats and then between the covers. 

Her bed had been really kind of inviting when she fell into it. A sort of embrace that had been missing from her life lately. When was the last time that she had been hugged? 

It didn't matter. She could feel Peter's arms now. 

Mary Jane was not a weak girl. She had paved her own way through the world, laying her goddamn yellow brick road a bit at a time. If Peter didn't want to be part of her life, so be it. She was attractive. There were other boys. 

They might not nibble their bottom lip when thinking of home. Their soft blue eyes might not burn like firecrackers when they saw her face. And maybe their shoulders wouldn't ripple under their shirts when they reached up to a shelf or their mysterious little grins might not speak of depths unknown or their name might not be Peter Parker but there would be other boys. 

MJ draped an arm over her eyes as she mulled her options. There were always other waitressing positions, but as she remembered the damage done to her shoes and the good chance of a swelling ankle, she dismissed them. Who cared if waitressing was the bohemian-actress thing to do? She was worse at that than she was at acting, if you listened to the results of her auditions. 

What were the things that she could do? MJ chewed her lip as she considered her walk to the diner every morning: were there any Help Wanted signs in any of the boutique windows? Anything open for a hairdresser? Filing? Something? 

She sat up, unconsciously squaring her shoulders. _I should at least file for unemployment in the meantime._ She grabbed her coat, pulling the door handle open, and noticed the little yellow slip taped loosely to the door. _Oh, no. Did I ever pay the rent? Was I too busy earning that money to actually give it to the landlord?_

MJ slumped against the doorframe, cradling her head in her hands. But only for a moment. _This is ridiculous. You're a grown woman, Mary Jane. You've dealt with worse than this._ Images of tombstones and Peter's morose face flashed through her mind. _Damn him. He said he'd always be there for me, and where is he now?_

She flew down the stairs, shredding the eviction notice into bits as she went. It was time she took care of things for herself. 

* * * * *

"Well, what are you planning to do?" At Harry's gesture, he pushed the Coke bottle across the table. 

"Me?" His housemate frowned as he filled his glass. "Huh. Good question. I could lend her money, but, I mean, she isn't really the type to accept charity." 

Peter nearly spat out a mouthful of soup. "Yeah, I'd say so," he managed. "C'mon, Harry, really. Where's she going to stay?" He saw Harry quirk an eyebrow and nearly choked again. "No, not in your room!" He shook his spoon for emphasis. 

Harry laughed. "Fine, fine, I give up. God, Peter, you ruin all my fun." He dodged another glare and continued. "Look, I can get her another place, pay the rent for awhile. She can always pay me back if she feels the need. There's plenty of places around Greenwich Village – that's what performers like, right? People playing violins under your window all night? It'll be perfect." 

"Just get her indoors." Peter sighed, watching the last bits of sunlight travel across the floor. "She can have my room. I can always sleep on the couch." 

"Well, since you volunteered - " Harry grinned. 

Peter wrinkled his nose in return, shoving back his chair and grabbing a jacket. "And in return, you're doing the dishes. I'm going over to her place to check up on her. See if she needs help moving out." 

* * * * * *

Well, it hadn't been a total loss of a day. 

So she had a new job. It definitely had taken a bit of begging and flirting, but she had a new job. As for the rent? Screw it. She'd called Harry, and he reassured her that he could put her up someplace else. He told her to go buy herself ice cream or something and head back to her apartment. 

As much as she hated to take her ex-boyfriend's advice, she wearily decided that it sounded good enough. As she'd discovered once today, high heels were hell to run around town in. She vaguely wondered why she even bothered with that sort of thing these days; it wasn't exactly like she ran into Peter anymore. 

"I never knew you liked mint chocolate chip." 

Then again… 

She laughed quietly to herself, turning from the small counter in her kitchen as she held the sugar cone. "How did I not hear you come in?" 

Peter dangled a key in front of her nose, stepping fully into her apartment. "Elementary, my dear Watson," he said playfully, pleased to astound her. The way those blue-green eyes widened was just – _okay, Parker, move on_. "No, actually, Harry had this from a few months ago, and I decided to come help you start packing. I'm sorry I beat you here." 

MJ reached to grab her key, only to have it snatched away. He's certainly in a good mood. "Oh, it's okay; thanks for the help! I was just out looking for a job. I think I found one – oh, hey, did you find the moving cartons?" She polished the last of her ice cream, standing up and stretching. 

She looked lovely in midnight blue. He blinked, willing the spinning thoughts in his mind to dissipate. The best way to deal with this sort of thing was to just push it all away. If he didn't look for her gentle curve of her neck or the way her hair barely brushed her shoulders - - he wouldn't see it. But the echoes of those dreams hit him at the oddest times: like now. He saw her accusing glare, saw the tears dripping down her face… 

Peter lifted a hand to his temple. "Actually, I think I did. In your closet?" At her nod, he continued. "How about you just make some stacks of things you want me to bring over and head back to the apartment? I think" – he paused to search his pockets - "I have enough for cab fare. You're probably exhausted. Harry said he's set up something for you back at our place." 

MJ shook her head. She yanked a handful of silverware from a drawer, moving on to the next. "No, that's really okay. I can just stay in a hotel for a few nights, I - " 

He took a step closer and lifted her delicate chin with a finger. "I know you can take care of yourself. But that doesn't mean that I don't want to help." He found it difficult to breathe; her lips quivered as she visibly struggled with tears, her vibrant hair spilling over her forehead. "It's really no trouble. I want to help," he whispered, a chill running down his spine. "I know - " 

She shook her head, laying a finger on his lips. "Please don't do this," she begged quietly. "If there's anything you know, it's how hard it is for me to be around you right now. And I want to be around you, but those words just make it worse." Her legs shook; it seemed almost as if he moving closer. 

Warm arms engulfed her as she gasped. 

Peter hadn't seen anything else to do; she trembled in a way that reminded him of Aunt May after his uncle's death. His protective instincts overrode any lingering shyness; it was all the chivalry of an earlier generation that he'd been raised with, the sort of golden boy mentality that Uncle Ben always said would win him a princess. 

Peter smiled bitterly as he felt Mary Jane's arms slip around his back. _It doesn't always work the way you'd think, Uncle Ben._

What felt like hours later, she silently escaped his grasp and disappeared into her room. She emerged with a duffel bag, slipping by him like a ghost as he wrapped her plates in foam. 

It was going to be a long night. 

* * * * *

A/N: _no, i'm not done with the first chapter yet. i did say it was going to be a long story, correct? :) please read and review! and thanks to everyone who's done so - you've all been very kind to me so far. :) _


	2. Humor Me

**TITLE** undeclared   
**AUTHOR** aidan adair (aidan@soon.com)   
**SUMMARY** some people don't like waiting.   
**A/N** this is the first half of the second chapter. you may want to check and make sure you've read all of the first, or you may be a bit lost here. the other half'll be posted tomorrow, pending edits. (hooray for long weekends!) 

* * * * *

**2** _humor me_

_"a new love -   
though i know   
there's no such thing as true love -   
even so,   
although i never knew love,   
still i feel that one dream is my due"_

She was weightless. The souls that passed her were anchored to the ground, but she could walk above their heads. 

When she was a little girl, she would just stop thinking. The second her father started screaming at her, she turned on the cruise control. It made it easier to deny everything he accused her of if she didn't stop to think of the consequences. And now it was far easier to ignore the last hour. Maybe that caring adoration was his idea of friendship, the knight-in-rusting-armor his approach to her life. Mary Jane realized that he loved her, but she knew the dimming twinkle in Peter's eye would soon entirely give out. Maybe she just needed to leave town. 

With a start, she realized that she was in front of Harry and Peter's building. She gave a little shake and buzzed up to their apartment. Harry didn't even wait for a message; he just unlocked the door. 

He had the door propped open. She walked in unceremoniously and dropped her duffel bag on the floor; with a small sigh as she plopped into one of their cushioned armchairs. 

"That's nice," she murmured, kicking off her heels. "That's really nice." 

"Long day?" Harry asked sympathetically, dropping into the couch opposite her. "God, I don't even have to ask. You must be exhausted." 

She closed her eyes. "You have no idea. This might sound really pathetic, but I feel like running away. There's just too much to deal with right now." 

He leaned forward and patted her hand. "It's understandable, but I don't think it'd work. I did that in high school, you know. I'd get sick of all the politics and backbiting and just stop doing my schoolwork. My father'd switch me out of the school, and it'd start again. Peter was the one who really pulled me out of it." Harry cut himself short, surprised at his outburst. "Sorry." 

Mary Jane straightened slightly, smoothing her skirt with her hands. "No, it's okay. How did Peter pull you out of it?" 

"Well, he was my best friend." Harry's dark eyes softened. "Any other best friend I had before that was either completely riding off his father or into things that I didn't really want to do. Peter was just genuinely nice. He always cared." 

She smiled, albeit sadly. "I know." 

Harry stared into her eyes for a moment. _Lovely._ "Oh, hey, Peter made me save you some soup – you're pretty lucky he insisted, or I would've polished it off. He made this awesome beef barley." He jumped off the couch and began bustling about the kitchen. 

MJ stretched and followed. "Peter cooks?" she said, surprised. "I imagined you two eating take-out all the time." 

"Well, actually, we did for a while," Harry said ruefully. "Then Aunt May found out, and all hell broke loose. Apparently she'd been teaching Peter how to cook ever since he was little so that _that_ wouldn't happen. Peter suddenly acquired culinary skills, and now we eat like kings." He popped the bowl into the microwave and pulled out a chair for her to sit down. 

"Thanks. I feel like I'm just plopping from one place to another," she said with a laugh. 

"Hey, you can plop here anytime." Harry's eyebrows knitted briefly. "I set up Peter's room for you, if that's okay? He has science stuff all over the place, but it doesn't smell too funky. I mean, I cracked the window." 

_Oh, great. I'm in his room_. "I'd assume Peter's on the couch, then?" MJ asked delicately. 

"Actually, he keeps an air mattress under his bed. He'll probably just drag it out to the living room. I'd imagine." Harry crossed his arms. "I mean, he'd better not sleep with you." 

She burst out laughing at his sudden frightened look. "Don't worry, Harry. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." 

He caught her gaze again, purposefully. "Maybe I just don't want him taking care of you." 

MJ ducked her head. She suddenly felt self-conscious and crossed her arms. "I'm really sorry, Harry, about our breakup. If it makes you feel better, he doesn't want me. Nothing's going to happen. I feel like a goddamn teenager with a crush." 

Harry bent over, lifting her chin with his hand: an unconscious echo of Peter's earlier caress. Mary Jane stifled a sob. "Look," Harry said, tenderly, "he's just deluded right now. I'm not sure he knows what he wants. I do." 

He slowly got down on his knees, looking up into her startled face. "Peter loves you as a friend. He's absolutely determined to fight for you, to help you win your battles. But I love you for what you are. You're a strong woman, but you can't do everything by yourself." At her flash of indignation, he quickly continued. "Mary Jane, I can't do everything by myself either! But I think we both could, with each other." Harry slowly pulled a tiny blue box out of his pocket. 

"Harry, I don't deserve this," she said honestly. "Imagine what your father's colleagues would say!" _Imagine what Peter would say. Maybe it would snap him out of his indecision._ Strangely, the thought made her feel rebellious. _Maybe that_ would _be the wakeup call he needed. Hold on: what the hell am I thinking? He'd never hurt me purposely. Why would I do something like that to him?_

Harry watched the conflicting emotions fly across her face. It was too hard to watch. He cupped her cheek with his hand, caressing her with his thumb. "I don't care what my dad's colleagues say. They're not important to me; they're not family. Peter's my family. You – well, I wish you were, too." He stumbled over his next words. "No one – no one could love you as much as I do. No one." 

Mary Jane stared at him blankly. He tried to make his gaze convey all his yearning, all the frustration of waiting and messing up and watching his best friend capture her heart. _I guess I'm making my move, now. Peter never had to._ He felt a sudden stab of jealousy for Peter, who could take care of everything so effortlessly, of schoolwork and careers and girls. 

Harry saw her expression before she parted her lips and didn't give her time to speak. "Look," he said, "just take this." He pressed the tiny velvet box into her hand, closing her fingers over it. "Think about it. Your soup's cold," he said lamely, getting up and walking to the microwave. 

Mary Jane turned the box over in her hands delicately, not daring to open it. Harry shut his eyes tightly and turned his head, hands fumbling for the doorframe. 

"I'll just go to bed. Turn off the lights when you do." 

He shut the door. 

* * * * *

When Mary Jane finally willed herself to open the box, she was duly delighted. She knew Harry pulled out all the stops when it came to impressing her, but this felt a little different - a little more warm. 

The ring was platinum; it was covered in diamonds, curly-cuing around one another to form a brilliant pattern around a lone sapphire mounted in the middle. The inscription around the inside of the band read _MJ: Forever Loved_. She idly ran a finger over the engraving, feeling the cool metal on her skin. A quick movement and she pulled it up her finger, where it rested perfectly. 

_That rat! He must've stole one of my rings to get the sizing this right._ She felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and tried to suppress the amused expression. _Think about it, MJ. This is temporary insanity. You don't love him, and you know it._ Mary Jane paused her train of thought, trying to shine a light into her mind. Did she love him? 

When she thought of Harry's tousled hair, his striking resemblance to James Dean (if one caught the broken look in his eyes), the gentle way he treated her after his father's death, the only thing that washed over Mary Jane was a fond regard. 

_I could marry him_, she thought sadly, _and I would be happy if I had never met Peter._

Mary Jane reached for the clasp of her necklace, slipping the ring onto the tiny silver chain. With nimble hands, she ran the chain under her shirt, catching a breath at the sudden chill against her collarbone. She resolutely left the kitchen, hitting the light switch as she left. 

If one ignored the cliché, it was exactly the ring she would have wanted, if she wanted a ring from him. 

* * * * *

_You'd think a superhero could hail a cab._

Peter dodged the sludge that flew his direction as a taxi sailed by. The sky had darkened six hours ago; the black of night and inefficient streetlights made it impossible to see a cab before it nearly ran him over. He sighed and turned, recounting the boxes piled by his feet. _The last thing I need is someone to steal MJ's things._ But the streets were empty. Peter was very glad that he hadn't been alerted to any crimes going on; he had no idea what he'd do, if forced to choose between Mary Jane's entire livelihood or someone else's welfare. 

He felt as if he knew her a bit better, that his new knowledge came from several hours digging through her apartment; nearly half the time was in her bedroom, folding her clothes and unplugging her appliances and wondering at the different bottles of cosmetics that littered her vanity. _Moisturizer? What?_

But it was when he had packed her sheets and comforter and was searching for odds and ends under her bed when he came up with the box. Peter had blown the dust off the wooden top, unveiling the words _To Mary Jane on her Eighth Birthday_. He'd smiled at the calligraphy and creaked the top off the hinges without really thinking. 

Inside was memorabilia that she had saved throughout the years: tear-stained notes from her friends, silly faces and bunny ears in photobooths, and what Peter guessed were ticket stubs from every play she'd seen. He'd stopped counting when he hit forty. _Was that what she did every weekend during high school?_ She was even more dedicated than he thought. 

But as he delved deeper, Peter had grown more intrigued. He came upon a locket that bore a picture of a young Mary Jane in ringlets; opposite was a beautiful woman with shining red hair. _Her mother._ He gently placed it back into the box. Her bouquets from prom were there, pressed and still faintly smelling like roses; a lily that he distinctly remembered from Mr. Osborn's funeral wreath hid in a corner, as well as a glistening diamond necklace that still looked brand-new. _Harry, you never give up_, he'd thought sadly, fingering the jewels. He'd replaced it. 

There were no keepsakes from him nestled in her box. _As it should be. She doesn't need to be attached to someone who could leave her at any time. She doesn't need a rose from the one who could get her killed._ But a tiny thought remained. _Will she remember Peter Parker when he's gone?_

The screeching sound of tires disrupted his thoughts. A U-Haul had picked up her furniture about half an hour prior; Peter tipped him generously enough that the man promised to wait until Peter arrived with MJ's boxes. As if on command, a cab finally swerved over to his side of the seat. Peter pulled out a five-dollar bill and motioned for the cabbie to help him load everything into the backseat. 

Dawn was breaking when he arrived. The colors of the sunset licked his feet as he made trip and trip again up to the apartment, piling boxes upon each other in the corner of Harry's room. His tousled housemate was wrapped up in his sheets, murmuring in his sleep about what sounded like sunscreen. Peter chuckled under his breath, carefully trying to avoid making any loud noises. 

MJ wasn't on the couch. He gave a mental shrug at that; maybe she was one of those people who liked to rise early to go jogging in Central Park. He took the stairs to his loft two at a time as he peeled off his shirt and winced at the sudden pain in his left shoulder. _I should exercise that_, he thought ruefully. _I think some wounds never heal_ – 

He stopped thinking the moment he reached the top of the stairs. 

She was sprawled on his bed, the sheets tangled about her waist; the toes of her white socks flopped off the bed. The morning sun caught the copper and gold in her hair. The metallic sheen caught his startled eyes and held it, as his gaze traveled down her peaceful face – _it's peaceful only in sleep? Oh, Mary Jane_ – and down to her attire. 

_That's my flannel shirt_, a tiny part of him thought. _She should keep it. It looks nice on her._

The rest of his attention was so fully captured by her sleeping form that when she moved, he was startled enough to leap out the window and cling under the sill. 

Mary Jane stirred, suddenly, blue eyes fluttering open; a sudden flash of moment fully woke her up. But there was no one there. 

_I hope Harry isn't watching me sleep_, she half-thought, rolling over and closing her eyes again. 

* * * * *

_please read and review! you've all been very kind so far._


	3. In Here Life Is Beautiful

**TITLE** undeclared   
**AUTHOR** aidan adair (aidan@soon.com)   
**SUMMARY** some people don't like waiting. 

**A/N** chapter three's here! (pending edits.) please give me your honest thoughts. this was the hardest one for me to write; the rest should be up in a pretty short fashion. thanks! 

* * * * * 

**3** _in here life is beautiful_

_"wanting to want to talk it out   
without you always flying away   
wish i could say you will be tomorrow   
and always"_

Mary Jane was not an early riser. She surprised herself as much as anyone else by stumbling downstairs around eight-thirty with a growling stomach. 

"You could wake up the dead with that noise," Harry observed, not looking up from his corn flakes box. "Morning." 

"Morning." She rubbed her eyes and reached for the pantry door. "What do you have to eat? Cereal, Pop-Tarts . . . do you have any real food?" she teased, turning to Harry with her hands on her hips. 

Her playful demeanor dropped when she saw his expression. "That's Peter's shirt," he said quietly, laying his spoon next to his bowl. 

"Oh." She took a compulsive look down; it dangled below her knees. "Yeah, I didn't bring any boxes and raided his drawers. This was one of the only things that didn't smell." MJ sighed. "Come on, Harry, you know he dragged my boxes in at the middle of the night. I didn't even see him. Where is he now, anyway?" 

Harry shrugged, but his shoulders were relaxing. "Class, probably. Then he checks in at the Bugle around noon, works at the lab until about four, and gets home in time to release his inner Julia Child for dinner. Speaking of which, there's sausages and eggs in the fridge. Just heat it up." 

She laughed as she swung open the fridge door. "He's totally wasted on science, I'm telling you." 

"So, what time do you have to get to work?" he asked, grabbing his bowl on his way to the dishwasher. "We could go house hunting. I called a few people, and I think I might've found a building. How do you feel about the Village?" 

The microwave beeped. "It's a great area! I do a lot of shopping there." She stood on tiptoe to pull out her breakfast. "I don't have to be at work until a little before seven, so we have plenty of time. Sound good?" 

He nodded. "Uh, about last night?" he asked, clearing his throat. 

"Could we wait to discuss that until I'm settled again?" Her expression softened. "The ring's beautiful, Harry. I'm just not sure if I'm ready for what comes with it." 

A shy smile spread across his face. "I had to steal one of your rings to get that sized, you know." 

"I figured." She giggled as she picked up the salt and pepper and eased herself into the table. 

"Anyway, I'll hop into the shower." He ducked out the door, then popped his head back in. "So…your own clothes are here now, right?" 

MJ mimed a blow at him. "Go get ready," she said, tucking in. 

* * * * *

_Went house hunting. Be back by dinner._

Peter laid the note back on the counter for the second time. It was almost seven. He sighed at Harry's vague concept of dinnertime and popped the chicken breasts in the oven, leaving a note of his own. 

It hadn't really been the world's best day. He was _this_ close to being lost in his organic chemistry class; the only thing that saved him was a lab partner who showed up to class about twice as much as he did. Lunch was a faint memory: he had to stop a mugging and ended up with just enough time to grab a coffee before running over to the Bugle. 

And, of course, Mr. Jameson loudly disapproved of the lack of new photos. Peter had to explain that there just wasn't that much brewing in town at the moment, and when something did occur, it was rather commonplace. 

To cap it all off, Aunt May called his cell just as he was preparing to leave the lab. She gently chided him for forgetting to call her last night, forcing Peter to explain MJ's run of bad luck. Although Aunt May was sympathetic, she was adamant about Peter giving her his decision by tomorrow morning. 

Peter grabbed his coat. _I think I need a drink._

The bar that Harry and Peter visited when life was handling them with less care than usual wasn't exactly a sleazy dive. The counters were modern, the ambience friendly. A stage sprawled across the back wall with a baby grand piano and several microphones, as the place played host to any number of rising stars over the years. There didn't seem to be any entertainment tonight. _All the better_, Peter thought, signaling a waiter. _I don't think I'd be the best audience right now._

He leaned over his rum and Coke, jingling the ice cubes before draining half of it in one go. His choice of poison wasn't exactly that potent, but Aunt May had drilled into him that there was nothing more disgusting than a man entirely drunk. One drink was his limit, but it was enough to help him put a new spin on things. 

Peter had long decided never to stew over anything he couldn't change. When his parents died, no amount of crying had brought them back; he rather doubted rending his clothes before the Powers That Be would take away his powers. And at this point, he didn't want to give them up. When one experienced flying – not like a bird, but when your feet scrape the sky as your body contorts and bends and you see the cars below you but they're not there yet not there yet not THERE and you dart back up into the sunspeckled clouds – no, he didn't think he could give up flying. 

As for Mary Jane – _this requires the rest of the drink_ – well. MJ was going to go far. He could see her hobnobbing with the biggest stars on Broadway, handing out Tony Awards with that million-watt smile. Performers would work harder just to measure up to her. And – _waiter, could you get me another?_ – she'd probably marry money, like she should've with Harry but was too blind to see, and she'd beat all the odds and fall in love with that rich guy, and maybe he could steal her away from her mansion to see her now and then. 

His third drink and he could see the bottom. Peter wasn't an angry drunk: the one time he'd been entirely smashed was Harry's twenty-first, and the worst he'd done then was burst into tears. MJ had smuggled him away from the party and back to her apartment, feeding him popcorn shrimp and cold glasses of water until he could see straight. He never knew exactly what he said to her that night, but she shot him sweet little smiles for the rest of the week. 

_I don't want to keep going like this_. Peter ordered a water and a plate of fries, slumping further into his chair. _At least I don't have to give her up. At least I can watch her back. Lord knows she watches mine._

He heard a chord come from the piano and glanced up, bleary-eyed, to the stage. A girl in a sparkling black cocktail dress stood before the microphone, her red hair swept back in a neat twist. 

_Oh, Mary Jane._

When she opened her mouth, Peter's jaw dropped. Granted, she wasn't the best singer he'd ever heard, but she was certainly not the worst. He remembered her whistling the tune while helping with that one disastrous Thanksgiving dinner when Mr. Osborn came over, but he'd never heard the words. When he asked her, she said it was a song from her favorite musical. 

MJ finished the piece and dropped a slight curtsy; the half-attentive patrons applauded politely and turned back to their meals. But Peter set a twenty under his last glass and swung his coat over his shoulders, tripping around to the front of the bar and back to the stage door. 

It was partially open. Peter ducked in. Mary Jane faced a mirror, pulling bobby pins out of her hair, wincing with each slight action. Bit by bit, her hair spilled like liquid copper across her back. Peter stumbled forward. She whipped around with a slight gasp. 

"Hey, relax, it's just me." He was rather proud of the fact that he wasn't slurring his words. "You were - - God, MJ, you were so good up there. You looked so good up there, like you belonged there." 

She fingered the chain around her neck. "Thanks, Peter. It really does mean a lot coming from you." He hiccuped. "Hey" - she peered forward into his eyes – "are you drunk?" 

He grinned. "Slightly. I've been worse." He began to topple to the side but quickly replanted his feet. Mary Jane laughed and steadied his shoulders with her hands. 

Peter's addled mind raced. _She's so close_. He abandoned any remaining conscious thought, dropped an arm around her waist, and kissed her. 

* * * * *

She watched as he slid into the cab seat, leaning forward and directing the driver. 

"Don't worry, pretty lady," the cabbie nodded at her, "I'll take care of your boyfriend." 

MJ didn't bother to correct him. Instead, she turned and flew back into the dressing room, dragging her fingers through her hair. The remaining bobby pins caught on her hands. She swore quietly. 

_He keeps throwing me into these impossible situations. Does he expect me to keep clawing my way out?_ She tossed her sheet music back into her bag, fiercely yanking the zipper. _Just because he's drunk and I'm a pretty girl and he knows I_... 

She hadn't resisted the kiss. She was tired – _but you wouldn't have pulled away even if you weren't_ – but she didn't want him – _quit lying_ – and the alcohol on his breath was a definite turnoff – _but you had the chance to take care of him, for once. To return the favor_. 

Peter sobered up very quickly when she pulled away. His shocked stare sent her heart plummeting to somewhere down around her shoes, and when he took several tentative steps backward, it broke. "I'm sorry," he'd whispered. "I didn't mean to – oh, God, MJ." 

"It's okay," she soothed, reaching forward to touch his cheek. "You're not really in control right now. Hard day?" 

He had nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets nervously. "Thanks for putting up with me," Peter sighed; Aunt May would be so disappointed. "I'll just go now. See you at back at the apartment." 

Her mind flew. She just watched him leave, as she'd done before; and she was cursing herself, now, more than the bobby pins or the shoddy microphone or even Peter Parker, because she never called _wait!_ when he turned his back to walk away. She had her own suspicions about his life, but she didn't really like to think too much about his relationship with Spider-Man. Things maybe started to spin out of control but all that seemed so trivial compared to the depth of the man who she couldn't quite catch. 

_Stop!_ MJ ground her train of thought into a halt, breathing deeply and shutting her eyes. _Just talk to him about it like a sane person tomorrow. Things aren't that bad. You have your house, you have your job, and you're still breathing. Be happy._

Mary Jane mustered her composure, threw her purse over her shoulder and left. 

* * * * * 

_please read and review!_


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